


Same As It Ever Was

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake Character Death, Gen, Happy Ending, POV Lestrade, dealing with grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:39:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: The more things change, the more they stay the same.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after The Reichenbach Fall. Originally posted to Livejournal in 2012.

Despite all his experience, Lestrade never ceased to be amazed at how much paperwork was involved in death. Endless forms that needed signing in duplicate, and then triplicate, for all sorts of government agencies. It got to the point where you no longer recognised you own signature, you'd scribbled it so much and stopped paying any attention to what you were actually signing.

He hadn't seen the body for himself, as per apparently Sherlock's instructions (and really he hadn't wanted to), but suicide's needed investigating, eye witnesses or no, and Lestrade felt responsible. He didn’t believe that Sherlock had been a fraud, not really, and he'd been too much of a coward to resign over it. Maybe he'd have been able to prevent it if he had done something more.

Maybe he wouldn't have.

He stared down at the latest form and, once the words stopped blurring and began to make sense, he added his signature to the bottom. Molly, efficient as ever, was milling around the room and took the paper from his hand as soon as it was signed.

She headed towards the door and then paused, looking back at him. “It's not,” she paused as Lestrade looked up at her. He hadn't heard her speak, or speak himself, for at least half an hour. “It's not your fault. It really isn't.” She gave a small, sad smile, as if she knew too much, and then she nodded and disappeared.

He wouldn't see her again until the funeral.

* * * * *

John was a wreck, of course. Though he tried to show a brave front, a soldier's front. Lestrade didn't really have anything but platitudes for him, and most of those he kept to himself. There were lots of forms of grief, and Lestrade had seen every single one of them in his time on the force. He knew perfectly well that there were some forms that couldn't be healed by words, or drowning your sorrows in the pub, or by punching a hole in the wall. Some forms would never heal but leave a gaping wound that slowly closed, though never completely filled.

John's would be bigger than most.

* * * *

Lestrade had never seen anyone cry so much as Mrs Hudson. Huge, wracking sobs interspersed with angry tirades about everyone, particularly Scotland Yard. Occasionally she remembered that Lestrade was right there, making tea and helping her clean out Sherlock and John's kitchen – he never dared take his gloves off while he was dealing with the fridge - and she'd add a caveat that she wasn't including Lestrade. But of course she was.

He included himself.

* * * * *

He didn't hear a word from Mycroft. Usually he was quite glad when a week went by and he didn't receive a text, or an email or find a memo waiting on his desk from the elder Holmes. But now he just felt slightly bereft.

* * * * *

There wasn't a big turnout at the funeral. Unsurprisingly. Lestrade had hesitated about even going, but John had called him and asked for a lift, the first proper conversation they'd had since That Day. So Lestrade had gone and said goodbye as best he could to the most amazing man he'd ever known.

He'd promised himself that he'd keep an eye on Sherlock. Always. No matter what mad thing he did. Because he was brilliant and more importantly because he knew just how brilliant he was. And Lestrade had failed.

It was so easy to believe that Sherlock could tip over from consulting detective to consulting criminal. But John never wavered and somehow, without even discussing it, Lestrade's own faith in Sherlock was restored by John's. Lestrade had seen too much with his own eyes, and he should have trusted in that, in his copper's instincts which even Sherlock had complimented. (Once, a long time ago. Followed by five insults on his intelligence, occasionally using words Lestrade had had to look up when he got home that night.)

* * * * *

He and John met up a few times. Quiet drinks in the pub, neither discussing the elephant in the room. Sometimes John would call up with an idea for a case he'd read Lestrade was investigating, something he remembered Sherlock saying, some hint that invariably put Lestrade on the right track. It almost felt like old times in those moments, which is probably why the length between the calls grew and grew.

Lestrade checked John's blog every week, not really knowing why, except it pleased him to see the visitor counter go up, even though no new posts appeared.

He checked up on Mrs Hudson and agreed that it was silly of John not to move back in to the flat, though he couldn't imagine a 221B without Sherlock Holmes in residence.

He saw Molly more often than he saw John, and even shared a sandwich with her while they waited for an autopsy table to become free (a massive pile up on the motorway had set them back several hours). He liked Molly's company but he never quite knew where he was with her. She had sad eyes and he wasn't sure whether Sherlock's death had lessened or heightened the depth of them.

He was sharper with Anderson and Donovan than he probably needed to be, but never enough that they had much of a leg to stand on to complain. Certainly he had enough on them, and the crime scenes they'd had sex at when they should have been working (courtesy of a dossier Sherlock had once compiled for him), that they couldn't be sure he wouldn't turn around and destroy their careers. Because he _would_ take them both down if he had to.

He tried to contact Mycroft once, just to see what would happen. Nothing did.

And then one day Lestrade walked into his house after a very long day at work, blood spattered on the cuffs of his shirt, soot in his hair, a crick in his neck, and Sherlock Holmes was sitting in Lestrade's chair, drinking Lestrade's tea and reading Lestrade's e-mails.

The start of a brand new adventure.


End file.
